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His name sounds dirty in her mouth.

She's slick, so slick, touching down on the main landing pad in her glossy fucking ship, strutting out of the elevator in her glossy fucking armor, and plying him for information with her glossy fucking lips.

He's thirsty.

"Colt," she greets each time, and each time it sounds like a proposition. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, just as slick as the rest of her. And he's so parched on Sloane's water rations, throat bobbing feverishly to refresh the saliva trying to build in his mouth.

Once, on their twelfth interaction (not that he's counting, just a part of the job) she slides off the elevator in something other than Nexus-branded civvies or full kit, some Blasto-emblazoned sleeveless number that has her glowing shoulders and ribs casually bared to their not-quite-golden world. They seem to absorb Kadara's sun and reflect it lushly, driving dock manager Colt Dalton to distraction.

Hours later, long into the night cycle, she returns. She's disheveled and just short of limping, skin flushed. The satisfied gleam in her heavy lidded glance as she passes him ruins Colt's sleep for cycles afterward.

The day she finally needs something from him is by far his sweetest yet in the new galaxy. She's fixed the water by now, done something miraculous to make Sloane a kinder god as well, and as a result Dalton's feeling better than he has in a long time.

But he's a man of his word, so he puts up the good fight. At least until she makes a good enough offer: "I can bend Sloane's ear. That's worth more than credits," she says, "and… I'll owe you one."

Colt can only smile. "Sold." If she leans in a little closer than strictly necessary when he whispers the passcode for the dock records in her ear, he doesn't mind. He also isn't upset when she takes him by the wrist and inputs a link-key to her direct line into his omnitool.

Though it's a little jarring, realizing that this woman who has probably killed thousands and has definitely saved an order of magnitude more doesn't even reach the height of his collarbone, can't even fully encircle his arm with her fingers. That the wheeling and dealing keeper of the galaxy's fate smells like she's partial to blueberry BlastOhs breakfast cereal.

"Let me know when you want to cash in that favor," she says, finally pulling away. "Colt."

It almost hurts to watch her go, no matter how good the view. He blows out a sigh. "Back to work."

He makes it 83 minutes before calling in his favor. Not that he's counting.

Not nearly as soon as either of them would like, he finds out that she's just as slick and glistening down there as she is everywhere else. That she likes to put those glossy lips to work, blazing a sticky pink trail down his belly and up his thighs. That she smells like artificial sweetener, but tastes like neat whiskey. That she has a habit of leaving filthy audio logs on his omnitool when she's away, and she begs for him in each and every one.

It's during a rather spirited revisit of her seventh such message--not that he's counting--that Colt realizes he's gone and gotten himself addicted to the sound of his name in her mouth.